


More Firsts

by jpgr1963



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Grinding, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 12:09:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/978690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jpgr1963/pseuds/jpgr1963
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An additional chapter to <b><i>The Contract</i></b>. This bit takes place in Liverpool after Chapter 2, the first snog on the golf course. Originally posted at McLennonLand on LiveJournal in 2012.</p><p>Disclaimer: This is pure fiction, nothing in this story is real, just all make believe, no intention of libel, no implied ownership, so chillax.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Firsts

 

**Liverpool, January 1959**

 

_[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/jpgr1963/pic/0006dy6p/) _

 

_Problems, problems, pro-o-o-o-blems_

_They're all on account-a my lovin' you like I do-o-o-o-o_

_Problems, problems, pro-o-o-o-blems_

_They won't be solved until I'm sure of you-o-ou_

_You can solve my problems with a love that's tru-u-e_

 

 

As the melodic sound of their perfect harmonies faded away in the background, John was still primping in front the mirror in the small upstairs loo, running his fingers through his quiff of auburn curls for the umpteenth time. It had recently started pouring outside, a bitter northern winter rain; now that the song had ended, he could hear the icy drops splatter hard against the colored glass window in his bedroom sanctuary down the hall. As he stood there fussing with his disobedient hair and dwelling on his appearance, he realized that he was in that odd space between moments…

 

It was the space between when Mimi had fucking finally left the house to run some bint errands… and when Paul was due to show up for a practice session. The Quarrymen had a gig scheduled for tomorrow at the Woolton Village Club. It would be only the third show since that terrible summer evening last July, only the third show since that drizzling day on the golf course last September; the wages were meager, but it was all right.

 

After a low grunt, surrendering with disgust to his nest of unruly hair, John stopped and took off his heavy frames, grabbing his jaw and turning his face a bit to the left at first, and then to the right. The dim light from wall sconces cast his sharp features in ripples of gray-yellow shadows.  He automatically narrowed his hypnotic, blind eyes and leaned in to the mirror for a closer inspection.

 

He wasn’t a bad looking bloke.  Fairly average, he figured, as he ran a finger along the strong line of his jaw, and then down the curve of his nose. Nothing special… just ordinary. Except that his eyes were too squinty and his lips too thin and his eyebrows too bushy… he forced a broad smile and lifted his chin up, judging the reflection staring back at him with cruel honesty.  At least his teeth were good.  Mimi had seen to that.

 

Suddenly, the wide smile disappeared at the sight of those indentations on his cheeks, at the rush of raw pain unexpectedly cutting through him. He had Julia’s dimples… everyone said so.  Besides two half-sisters and an endless supply of answerless questions, it was all she’d left him.

 

Her dimples… and that rogue, copper-chestnut hair that never bloody cooperated.

 

It was the space between moments… leisurely minutes for an eighteen-year old orphan to linger in front of the mirror like an insecure, sad twit, dressed only in a sleeveless white undershirt and tight, faded blue jeans, and mercilessly dissect his physical faults.

 

Space between moments to think… 

 

For no real reason at all, John brushed the fingertips of his right hand over his slightly parted lips.

 

How the fuck had unremarkable, sober John found the nerve in the first place to snog him on that golf course? He’d just gone barmy for a bit… temporary insanity brought on by unspeakable, buried grief. Shit, Paul wasn’t a nancy boy… the lad constantly had his randy hands up some bird’s skirt.

 

But Paul had kissed him back, kissed him  _hard_ … Paul had wanted it as well, hadn’t he?

 

The tennis game of clashing thoughts bouncing back and forth, slamming against the boney walls of John’s skull, was turning him daft. After rubbing his temples and eyes for a while, John put his specs back on and looked down at his arms, thicker and more muscular than just a year ago.  His body was changing… everything was changing.  After patting his stomach, content that his belly was still hard and flat, in spite of the extra pints he’d been inhaling at the college pub lately, his hand slid lower, hooking an index finger on the edge of his waistband. With a long, silent sigh, he remembered the smoky taste of that beautiful mouth… the calloused touch of those hands.

 

_“Think about yer girlfriend’s sweet snatch, ya fuckin’ queer!”_

 

A lustful groan escaped through his lips as he reached down and cupped his heavy balls through the taught denim, squeezing gently.  But there was no stopping the vivid visions that shoved normal laddish cravings out of the way… risky, illicit, sucking-on-Paul’s-throbbing-neck sorts of images…  Shit. He reckoned he had at least a few minutes, right?  Some time before his bandmate showed up… a few minutes to toss himself off, to release those secret, illegal urges.

 

Christ, he and Paul had said nothing… they’d done absolutely nothing since that autumn day on the golf course.  Don’t talk about it. Pretend as if it never happened.

 

Bloody pansy cowards… the both of them.

 

But awkward silence and spans of distance weren’t working for Lennon, were they?  Not during these lonely spaces between moments…

 

He undid the fly of his jeans and pushed his right hand underneath the denim and then cotton fabrics, quickly wrapping his fingers roughly around his half-hard shaft. Grabbing the edge of the porcelain sink with his left hand to steady his weight, knuckles already white from the strain, John closed his eyes behind his thick lenses. With a soft moan, he let his head fall forward, adjusted his cock into position, and began the familiar, furious rhythm.

 

“Nnghh… shit, yeah…”

 

Just as his thighs began to twitch with the faintest of pleasure spasms, two hard knocks echoed up from the front porch door downstairs.

 

Punctual twat. 

 

_“Let him stand out in the rain for a bit.”_

 

After a few more frantic tugs on his aching throbber, there were two more loud, urgent knocks at the door.

 

Fuck.

 

 

 

Looking up at John’s bedroom window, Paul huffed with a wrinkled-nose grimace, as cold raindrops dripped off his soaked forelocks and flowed down his cheeks.

 

_“Bastard’s kippin’… or wankin’.”_

 

Paul caught a glance of his reflection in the porch window. Shit. His carefully coiffed locks were bloody ruined… so much for an hour in front of the mirror with a comb and gobs of hair grease. He had propped his trusty bike up against the wooden yard fence, tires and chain coated with slimy mud, exactly where Mimi had scolded him to put it when he rode across the greens for a visit.  Now he waited, standing there shivering in the pouring late January rain. 

 

_“Cor, John!  Open the fuckin’ door!”_

 

Paul finally tried the porch door handle; it was unlocked.

 

“John?  Are ya ‘ere?”  He shouted up the dim stairway, reckoning that John was lurking about up there somewhere.  He knew Mimi would be gone and the boarders would be off at work or at uni; John had told him so just the other day when they _accidently_  ran into each other near Stu’s flat and arranged an afternoon to practice.  McCartney was unusually nervous; they’d be alone at Mendips.

 

No one watching them, nobody listening to them…

 

No shrewish auntie hovering about in the parlor.

 

Why the fuck was Paul so bloody skittish?  It was just John after all. They’d put that awkward ‘incident’ behind them, right?

 

No reason to be so fucking twitchy.

 

“Oi, Johnny! S’me, mate! ‘Ere for practice, right?”

 

Nothing.

 

Until he heard, and then saw, two bare feet slowly padding their way down the stairs.  Then a pair of thick legs encased in tight indigo jeans.  And then John’s broad, muscular torso, clad in only a skimpy undershirt.  Paul’s breath caught somewhere in his throat, even before he saw that face come into view…

 

Fuck. 

 

John could pull any bird he fancied… Paul had seen it with his own eyes.  Many times.  What the hell made John kiss  _him_?  And why the hell did he need to kiss John back? It had been just a lark, right?  They weren’t queer.  Well, McCartney had been feeling a bit off since that day, and before even. Ever since he’d met John, if he thought about it for too long.  

 

But John certainly wasn’t a poof, not with that new girlfriend of his hanging off his arm nearly every day. Lennon hadn’t paid Paul much mind at all since  _that_  afternoon… what with his new bird and that artsy cunt Sutcliffe.

 

John was avoiding him. 

 

Cause of that fucking snog?

 

More answerless questions never asked out loud.

 

John stopped on the last step before the bottom landing and crossed his arms, leaning against the stairway wall, frustrated as hell from the interruption but amused nevertheless; he tried to hold back the grin, but bits of it snuck out at the corners of his mouth.

 

“Alright, Paul. Yer early, son.”

 

Shit, soaking wet Paul, with his perfect hair all drenched and matted down about his perfect head, was quite an adorable, hilarious sight to inhale.

 

“Alright, John.” 

 

Fidgeting with his guitar case, Paul tried to look cool and calm, as streams of frigid rainwater rolled off his short wool jacket and onto the foyer floor. “Figured I’d miss the worst of the rain if I left earlier.  No luck though.”

 

“Stay there.  I’ll get a towel.  Mimi’ll have me hide if ya damage the floor.”  Rocking on his heels and chilled to the bone, Paul simply nodded, and gently lowered his guitar to rest by his feet.

 

Less than a minute later and snickering under his breath, John chucked a pale yellow towel at Paul’s head.

 

“Shoes off then.”

 

“Yeah… right.”  After Paul stepped out of his mud-splattered brown shoes, he wrapped the towel around his head and rubbed hard, drying off his hair as best he could.  He patted down and then threw off the jacket, realizing that his shirt underneath was also wet. 

 

 “I’m still soaked.  Bloody ‘ell!”

 

“I’ve got spare clothes for ya.  C’mon… upstairs, Paul.”

 

“Ta.” 

 

Paul had never borrowed any of John’s clothes before, not even on  _that_  day.  Not ever.  Before his dark-socked feet touched the first step, his gut felt fluttery and nauseous.  Once they were safely tucked away in Lennon’s lair of a lad-cave, John took off his glasses, opened the window a crack and lit a forbidden cigarette, nodding his head in the direction of his wardrobe cabinet. “Shirts in the second drawer, trousers on the bottom.”

 

Off in the corner by the desk, his back to the window, Paul peeled off his clammy button-down shit and dirty, wet jeans, changing into John’s freshly laundered undershirt and a pair of black trousers… quickly.  Without much of a reason, Paul pulled the cotton shirt fabric up over his nose for just a moment and inhaled. 

 

John’s clothes were soft and dry and faintly smelled of spicy cologne…   Perfect, really.

 

Slouched in a chair by the window, John watched every second of Paul’s outfit switch, smiling inside.  Shit, even drenched, puppy-dog Macca was breathtaking.  Androgynous but still decidedly masculine… girly, but hairy and ballsy tough as well.

 

Perfect, really.

 

After a quick visit to the loo to fix his damp, tousled hair, Paul plopped down on John’s small bed and picked up his acoustic. Although the boys hadn’t seen each other much since the last Quarrymen show on New Year’s Day, they soon fell into a more casual rhythm of mindless strumming and singing raunchy ditties and joking and smoking. Paul would find himself stealing glances when he thought John wasn’t looking; John would catch himself staring at Paul’s mouth and abruptly avert his eyes.

 

“So what’s our Georgie up to these days?”

 

“Just mucking about, permanently attached to his new guitar.  Saw ‘im yesterday.”

 

Paul watched John’s fingers fidget with the filter of his nearly spent fag; John gazed at Paul’s tongue, darting out to lick his full bottom lip.

 

“How’s Cynthia?”

 

“Same. Not as prim and proper as she puts on though, ya know.”

 

John winked and then strangely regretted his words; having forced a flash of a smile, Paul swallowed and looked away. As they continued to play bits and pieces of other musicians’ songs, thoughts were slowly clogging up Paul’s mouth.  Against his will and out of his control, he started to speak.

 

“Listen, John… we need to…”

 

“Hmm? Something on yer mind?”

 

“Nothin’… s’just…”

 

“Just what?  What are ya on about, Paul?”  The feigned disinterest in John’s voice matched his distracted effort to reach down and pluck up his pick off the floor.

 

“Are ya avoidin’ me?”

 

John stopped mid-reach and pushed out of his chair to walk the short distance to the single bed and sit down next to Paul.

 

“Budge up.  What’s this?”  John leaned back against the wall.  “Why do ya ask that?”

 

“I dunno.  I hardly ever see ya anymore.  Yer off with yer girlfriend or messin’ about with Sutcliffe or yer other mates from the college most days.”

 

Paul winced; he hated when his tone sounded more pathetic than serious.

 

“Christ, yer not me only friend, McCartney.  Don’t be daft, all right? We’re in a band together, but I can’t fuckin’ practice every goddamn day.”

 

“But we’re still song writin’ partners and all, aren’t we? I mean… we haven’t fuckin’ written anythin’ in weeks. We’ve hardly spent any time together… playin’ and writin’, I mean.”

 

Paul hadn’t lifted his eyes from his lap, but instead kept them focused on the diamond thread pattern of the borrowed trousers.

 

“Course we’re still writing partners… but, Christ Paul, we’re not bloody boyfriends.”

 

Paul suddenly looked up and Lennon instantly recognized that slicing pain of hurt in Paul’s eyes… shit.  John snorted with effort, trying to lighten the mood, to brush off his complete prat of a remark as a joke.

 

“Right.  Fuck off.”  Furious and embarrassed, Paul jumped up, grabbing his guitar and retrieving the wet shirt and jeans off the desk.  “I’ll get yer clothes back to ya tomorrow.”

 

“Macca, wait…”

 

John dashed over and grabbed Paul by the shoulder, turning him round before he had a chance to leave the room.

 

“I didn’t fuckin’ mean it like that.”

 

“Bullocks!”

 

“I didn’t… all right?”

 

“Than how  _did_  ya mean it, John?”  Paul moved several inches closer, narrowing the gap between their faces. His face was flushed and twisted.

 

“Shit, Paul.  Yeah, I have been dodgin’ ya, sort of.  It’s just, well… I’m just not sure what to fuckin’ say… what ya want me to say, ya know?”

 

“What?  What  _I_  want you to say? Christ, John… I’ve no fuckin’ idea what to say meself.”

 

“Listen, I… shit.  I can’t stop thinkin’ about it, yeah?”

 

Paul’s eyes brightened as a crack of a smile curled his upper lip.

 

“Thinkin’ about what, John?”

 

“Ya know what.”

 

Paul planted his stance and crossed his arms aggressively; John rested his right palm against the wall behind Paul’s right shoulder.

 

“Yer gonna make me say it, then?”

 

“Yeah, I fuckin’ am.”

 

“All right… I keep thinkin’ of what ‘appended… about kissin’ you back then.  About you fuckin’ kissin’ me back. Satisfied, ya beautiful prick?”

 

“No, John.  I’m not.”  Paul re-crossed his arms and inhaled deeply; his furry forearm muscles were taut from the rush of adrenaline. “I’m fuckin’ frustrated s’what I am.”

 

“With me?”

 

“With everything!  With school, with birds, with me dad, with being skint all the fuckin’ time, with being stuck ‘ere in middle of no where… I’m aggravated with this entire shitty, cocked up world!  But yeah, mostly with you, ya know.”

 

John turned his smirk to the side before answering his best mate with a slow, silky voice.

 

“What the fuck do ya want me to do, luv?”

 

“Stop bloody avoidin’ me, for a start.”

 

“And?”

 

“And…”

 

Paul uncrossed his arms slowly and grabbed the bottom edge of John’s shirt with his left hand, pulling the older boy even closer. He’d had no fucking clue where he got the balls to be so brazen, but he gave in to his needs, he let go of reason and control.

 

Lennon felt Paul’s warm, raspy breath on his cheek, he felt Paul’s finger trail over the surface of his T-shirt and trace a random pattern over the muscles of his stomach… the point of contact between Paul’s fingertip and John’s abdomen burned with smoldering, pent up desire. It was silent, except for the sound of rain and their fast breathing, as McCartney spoke to John with only his eyes and his touch. 

 

Genius cunt Sutcliffe couldn’t do that. Paul doubted John’s mousy, Hoylake skirt could either.

 

Without a noise between them, both afraid to shatter the delicate spell, Paul cocked his head and took John’s lower lip between his full ones, tugging softly.  Sucking gently.  John shut his eyes at the wickedly delicious sensation; no bird ever felt like this. His hand left the wall to entangle his needy fingers in Paul’s thick hair, pulling him closer, harder.  Wrapping his other arm around John’s waist, McCartney was thrilled and terrified and a thousand other jumbled feelings that he’d never felt all at once before.  He moved even closer, forcing nearly the entire length of their pressing bodies to connect, snogging his mate… his best mate… with a intensity he’d never known.  Not like this. 

 

Finally, after clumsy tongue play that drove him dangerously close the edge, John broke the kiss, panting.

 

“Lemme… can I… touch you?”

 

Paul smiled, his eyes heavy and half-closed with lust.

 

“Such a polite lad, you are, Johnny. Yes, for shit’s sake… fuckin’ touch me.”

 

When John’s palm cupped and then brushed roughly up and down and over the warm, hard bulge in Paul’s borrowed trousers, it threw the younger lad off balance, causing him to stumble a couple of steps backwards against the bedroom wall… his head fell back, his large eyes closed, his lips quivered as he tried to speak.

 

“My God… this is…”

 

“S’wrong. We… should… stop.”  Lennon could barely get the whispered words out between heaving breaths, his damp forehead resting against Paul’s moist temple. Despite the cold January air blowing in through the open window, both boys had broken into a heated sweat, rivulets of perspiration running down the backs of their necks.

 

“S’ppose... yeah.”

 

“Just… bit more though… right?”

 

“Yes… more. I need this... you.”

 

Quickly, desperately, they launched into another deep, sloppy tongue fuck, pausing only to gasp for air, hands roaming and grabbing and pulling on anything… everything they could reach while still managing to stand up, Paul’s back pressed flat against the wall.  Fingers caught in hair, pinching bone, squeezing muscle. Their movements were harsh and clumsy, neither lad knowing how to snog dance with the familiar yet unfamiliar feel of another boy’s enflamed body.

 

“Sshh… easy, luv. Follow me…” It was halfway between a growl and a cry, as the barely coherent order tumbled out of John’s mouth into Paul’s ear. Without further hesitation, his more experienced body took charge of their fumbling gyrations, finding and then demanding a perfect grinding tempo for mutual pleasure between too many layers of fabric. Paul submitted immediately and willingly. Back and forth, their stiff cocks and sensitive sacks ground hard against each other in frantic passion, in time with ravenous kisses and nibbles and moans.  John reached his right hand down again, adding his talented fingers to the fierce, delicious pressure.

 

“Christ, John… it’s too… too much!”

 

“Over to the bed then…”

 

“I can’t… won’t make it…”

 

“Then fuckin’ let go of it, baby.”

 

No mistake this time; that was a bloody command.  And that was all Paul’s prick needed to hear, as his young body stiffened and then violently convulsed, exquisite whimpers of ecstasy dripping off his tongue as his beautiful eyes rolled back in his head. Without dawdling, John shoved his friend’s half-limp, spent body up against the wall even harder, ground against him for a few more strokes and then drained his package with more force for much longer than he’d ever known was even fucking possible.  They both sank to the floor in a shivering embrace, groaning and cursing and chuckling, completely out of control of their limbs, entirely out of their minds.  A fucking delightful, wicked knee-trembler… without penetration, with all their clothes on.

 

Their first fuck… sort of.

 

After finally releasing each other from that tight, crushing hold, they rolled away and lay next to each other on their backs, staring up at the ceiling, trying to catch their breaths, wiping the streams of sweat from their faces.

 

“Bloody ‘ell, John.”

 

John couldn’t answer… uncontrollable surges of pleasure giggles had taken hold of his body.

 

“Fuck, luv… I’m gonna need to borrow another pair of….”

 

John choked on his gagging snorts.  “Bottom of the wardrobe, Macca.”

 

“Right.”  Paul gently caressed his soft shaft through the trousers, his lad bits painfully raw from the burning friction.

 

“Shit, my dick’s gonna be right sore later.”

 

John raised a comical eyebrow in disbelief.  “No easy stroll through the fuckin’ park being me boyfriend, is it?”

 

Paul threw his forearm over his eyes and smiled sweetly at the sound of John’s voice saying  _that_  word with such honest affection.

 

“I’ll manage just fine, Lennon. Trust me, luv.”

 

“We’ll see, Paul.”

  
  



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